Log of 177, the Spartan
by AlexanderWraith
Summary: Story from Reach to ODST. I suck at summaries. Spartan who does things his own way, even after all the training. Follow his life from Spartan to... You'll have to read to find out! Read the tale with lots of action! Please read and review!
1. A fight for Reach

**Ahh Reach. Great game. R&R, enjoy.**

"Well this ain't good," Spartan 177 said out loud. He pulled out his Sniper Rifle and began picking off Covenant before the order to fire could even be given. Spartan 177 loved kicking ass, and the Sniper Rifle was one of his favorite ways, especially from the Falcon he was currently riding in. The killing machine took a moment to calm his breathing, and fired again, watching an Elite's head pop of and fall to the ground, scattering Grunts.

Over the years, 177 had collected an armor set that most certainly complemented his fierceness in battle. The jetpack on his back whined as it went through a warm up cycle. He wore the paratrooper knee guards, UA Multi Threat shoulder patches, and a hard case. Data pad free of charge from command. The ODST styled helmet scanned the battle field for more Elites and Hunters through a black tinted visor. Top it all off with a steel paint job with blue highlights, you had Spartan 177.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and paused his firing to turn around. Spartan… D-183, was yelling at him to wait for the order to fire. 177 ignored him. The other Spartan still wore the generic grey armor, without a single upgrade on him. Not even so much as a kill scratch. 177 brushed him off and fired off the last two shots in his Sniper magazine in quick succession; using the recoil from the first to line up the second. An Elite and Jackal fell to the ground, both with rather large holes in their chests.

As 177 popped out the magazine, he used the corner and made 4 more small scratches next to the stock, where a growing collection was already taking residence. Only his Sniper Rifle earned such respect for kills, the rest of this Spartan's kills could be seen in the hard case. He carried a click counter so he could keep track with out having to slow down his reign of death on the Covenant. Sadly the counter stopped after 999, the data pad on his left wrist was never used for more than a place to record kills and make notes on the missions he was on.

The Spartan behind him was yelling at him to stop when 177 spotted something out of the corner of his eye when the pilot made a sharp turn. Something green and glowing was on its way. The falcon slowly turned, the added weight of the two Spartans made the copter a very slow and tasty target. Without thinking twice, he stood up and punted the second Spartan out, the grenade launcher mount falling out with him. He clipped the Sniper Rifle the his back.

"See you on the other side!" 177 yelled roughly to the pilot as he stepped out, one hand pinched over his "nose", the other high in the air. As he plummeted to Reach, he saw the Falcon barely dodge the Fuel Rod Cannon discharge. 'Thank Grunts for small favors.'

Right now more pressing matters came to mind. The grey Spartan had managed to hold onto the grenade launcher. It looked good with him, the gray of his suit that was. Even if he was a little short, for a Spartan that is. While not designed for two fully suited Spartans, 177 grabbed D-183's free hand, and kicked in the boosters. The jetpack complained, but it slowed the speedy decent enough that both had managed to recover quite well. 177 let his tough suit absorb the impact as he dropped to one knee. D-183 rolled it out, bringing the grenade launcher to bare. The two did a quick look around and stood.

"What the fuck was that!" D-183 yelled. That was all he got out, because at that moment a bean came between them, deadly and ready to turn them into human steaks. The two dived behind a large rock; 177 pulled out his Sniper Rifle once more and reloaded. D-183 ripped what remained of the mount off of the launcher and tossed it to the ground. 177 opened a channel to him. The stared at the visor and gave him a small little blip over the com channel. One blip came back, green.

The two peeled from behind their cover, to face more Covenant than the UNSC would ever want two Spartans fighting without any back up. To most, it would be a death sentence. But even to Spartans as green as D-183, this was the coffee to breakfast.

The sharp report of the Sniper Rifle sounded as all four rounds left in three seconds. All four found their mark, well before D-183 had fired off his first shell. 177 was already adding marks the the Sniper Rifle. It was however quickly switched out with the Assault Rifle on his right thigh, where a pistol normally was clipped. Something could be said for bringing out as much as you could when you can. He fired in short bursts, watching Grunts fall as the pair of walking death machines slowly made their ways forward.

D-183 was doing just as well. He had to angle the Launcher high in order to hit much, but more often than not it would hit a Grunt who had just pulled out a grenade, resulting in a plethora of explosions. It was an art really, to watch those shells sail through the air, and as they got closer, skip along the ground into a trio of Jackals. The Spartans took cover as several Fuel Rod Cannon shots flew by.

"I want that weapon!" 177 yelled. To anyone who didn't know 177, they would say he sounded crazy happy. But 177 was happy. Happy to have a chance to return some of the favors some Grunt was giving them. D-183 clicked blue once over the com; the two broke cover and split up, diving the fire between them.

The Launcher was on its last couple shells, and D-183 spent them as fast as he could. Bodies tore in half and flew around his, their blue blood splattering his helmet a little. He spotted an Elite and fired the final shell in his direction. The shields flickered, and the Elite charged at him.

With nothing more than a pistol on his hip, D-183 waited till the last moment and jumped, planting both of his heavy boots into the Elites face. The two felt to the ground, the Elite dazed and rolling in his heels. D-183 quickly scrambled over to the Elite, seeing his opportunity. He pistol whipped the Elite in the stomach, who gasped and choked for air. D-183 shoved the pistol into the disgusting creatures mouth and fired. Fired three shots, three holes appeared in the back of its head. D-183 didn't know if it was because his first real firefight was with a crazy that he himself felt like a lunatic, but he stood grinning, the Elites head still wrapped around his hand and pistol. He gave a half hearted punch and let the dead Elite fall down. The shields recharged; t was from the double kick to the face he had given only moments ago.

"Recharge that," D-183 said calmly. He noticed a rather odd shaped launcher that the Elite might have had strapped to him. D-183 recognized as an Elite Shot, as it was called amongst some Spartan teams. He picked it up and headed towards 177 to help out.

177 was in no rush to have help, nor did he need it. The short bursts had been changed to steady runs from the Assault Rifle. The tossed a couple grenades, taking only a millisecond to count in his head how many he had caught in the explosions. It was only moments later that the rifle had emptied. 177 dropped the empty magazine. He pulled out the last magazine he had for the rifle, but took a moment to use the broad side to slap a Jackal, sending the many toothed creature spinning, blood coming from its eyes. 177 fired of the last magazine in a long burst, leaving the deadly weapon empty and Grunts and Jackals alike deprived of life. A Hunter stepped around the corner and took a couple heavy steps towards him. The giant beast slammed its large thick shield into the ground, sending dirt and a couple Grunt parts flying.

177 almost sighed as he tossed the empty Assault Rifle to the ground. He drew out the Sniper Rifle lazily, like a child not wanting to do a chore. Without even having to sight the weapon in, he fired one round. The Hunter stood still as the bullet passed through the impossibly small space that could be termed the Hunter's face. It fell to the ground and 177 admired his handy work, taking a moment to use the dead Hunter's shield to scratch another mark into the Sniper Rifle.

His vigil was broken by the sound of a double yellow blip over the com. A 'drop what your doing and get over here' signal. 177 quickly grabbed the long barreled Needle Rifle. Using his jet pack he soared above the trees and rocks, he quickly spotted D-183 pushing back three Elites. Even though he was a Spartan, that only got you so far. D-183 was firing left and right, kicking up a lot of dirt but scoring much in the way of hits. It was right then that D-183 had to reload. 177 shot the closest Elite, firing straight down into its head, watching the shields flicker and die. The Elite never had time to look up, 177 had already pulled out his knife and shoved it into the head. The other two turned and fired their plasma weapons and roared. 177 picked up the dead body and using it for a barrier momentarily before kicking it at the next Elite.

"Tag!" D-183 called out, stepping in front of 177 and firing the Elite Shot at the Elite who was not distracted by a flying body. The grenades made quick work of the body, 177 was sure he saw the body crumble from the concussion long before the shields fell. As the remaining Elite tried to rise, the two concentrated their fire, the Launcher raining the grenades around it, the Needle Rifle surgically shooting the Elite to bits. Knees first, then three to the stomach, then one to the chest and head. Smoke and dust settled, the smell of cordite and burnt flesh in the air.

"You're pretty handy with that," 177 commented, tossing the spent rifle to the ground.

"Thanks," D-183 said, as if not knowing what else to say. 177 opened his Tac-Pad and totaled his kills, pausing at the last one.

"Dibs," 177 quickly said, and punched it in. He showed the total kills for the little firefight.

D-183 raised an eyebrow in his helmet, noticing for the first time just how many bodies now lay out there. "No way man. Last one was mine."

"You wish tenderfoot," 177 said, putting the Tac-Pad away. He pulled out a small thin rod. He mostly used it only to sharpen the combat knife on his shoulder, but 177 figured this was a special occasion.

"Whats are you doing?" D-183 asked as 177 walked behind him. Across the shoulder blades he carefully carved out the armor finish, leaving behind a couple words, and a rough but simple picture of an explosion.

"What did you write?" D-183 asked as he heard command calling them, telling them EVAC was on the way.

"They look better blown up," 177 said simply. He put away the sharpener and surveyed the carnage. He remembered the carnage from earlier, and the Hunter. Strange there was only one.

The Spartans turned to look across the field; to a Scarab, and a whole company of Covenant. And one very pissed off looking Hunter. This time, there was just too many. The Scarab was a lot to handle just on its own, but this?

"I think I have enough shells," D-183 said, loading a new canister in the Elite Shot. "What do you have left death dealer?"

177 took his Sniper Rifle and began to back pedal. Zooming in as far as he could, he finally saw the head of an Elite running for them.

"More than you!" 177 called out. The two continued their advancing retreat, secretly hoping reinforcement could get there before the Scarab got in range.

**There you have it! Part one complete! Stay tuned for more ass kicking from a Spartan who laughs in the face of danger. For more awesomeness, read while playing 'I don't wanna stop - Ozzy Osbourne'. somehow it fits. And know for all you nuts like me...**

**You ever wonder why we're here?**


	2. An ODST, an AI, and a Spartan

**Readers! I am so sorry! As you may have noticed, my previous entries are riddled with mistakes. I apologize for this, I'm currently using some new auto correct software. I hope to catch more of these in the future. Please review! and now, a little backstory.**

177 and D-183 ran as fast as they could towards the Falcon that had just touched down. Grass and rock were blurs to them as they sped along. Though the Covenant were not gaining on them, the Banshees broke formation occasionally to take a pot shot at them or two.

"Fuck!" D-183 swore as a plasma shot left a giant hole in front of them. Opting not to get torched by the charred earth, the gray Spartan ran around. 177 hopped over it easily with his jetpack, putting him ahead. 177 normally would have made some crack about him wanting to take a piss break, but he was too focused on the ground ahead, and for the sound of incoming shots. He heard his suit whine as it drew in the cool air, attempting to cool him as sweat trickled down his body. No Spartan would be sweating from simply running; 177 closed his eyes trying to shake the memory away. But the memory came, filling his vision...

"Go go go!" 177 screamed. The Mk IV grey helmet with the familiar blue detailing watched as one civilian and five ODST's broke cover, running from alley to alley. The quaint suburban town burned as it was engulfed in flame as the Covenant burnt anything alive. 177 pulled out his trusty Sniper Rifle and downed a few trailing Jackals before following the small group. He dived into the next alley right after his small attachment. He pressed his back to the wall and smacked his head to it, letting the small jolt let him know he was still alive.

"Andrew?" the civilian woman asked nervously. Spartan 177, or Andrew looked at the woman. Her hair was a dirty brown, and starting to lighten in her old age. She clutched to something on the end of a necklace; her hazel eyes looked back in fear. It was hard to believe, after all this time, she was still alive. That his mother was alive, and he had found her. Even with the briefing on Reach when he first arrived, he knew that she was looking for him. It was unfortunate that Dad had died a month or so after he left, but his Mom was still there.

Andrew looked at his mom, thinking better than to address her as mom in front of the battle hardened ODST's. He placed an armored hand on her shoulder trying to comfort her. An ODST walked over and placed a hand on his HAZOP shoulder pad.

"They're coming from everywhere," came a throaty African voice. "We need to make a run for the Pelican now, or we aren't making it home. Our coffin will be this glassed planet.

'Cheerful," Spartan 177 thought as he scratched the Jackal kill marks into the rifle. "We need to take as many back roads as we can. The last thing we want is to get in a fire fight." While the team looked well armed, they were low on ammo. He had his Sniper Rifle, a pistol; the ODST's had a pistol each, the African team leader carrying a DMR. One of the ODST's had a Fuel Rod Cannon attached to his back, but was refusing to use it until things got noisy. Probably for the best, the last thing they needed right now was the Covenant tracking them by following the green cannon. 177 reloaded, and handed the pistol to his mother.

"You know how to use this?" Andrew asked. His frail mother took the pistol, it looked large in her hands, but she gripped it steadily. She flicked the safety off and stared at him, as if waiting for instructions. It was enough for him

177 looked around the corner, back into the street they just came from. The coast was clear, nothing had changed minus the Jackals who had some more time to bleed into the concrete.

"Let's move!" 177 ordered, waving the team along. One of the ODST's paused, leaning close to 177.

"Why do we have a civilian? She's just going to slow us down. We should pop her right now and.."

The ODST never finished what he was about to say. In a lash of anger, 177 swung his arm back, impacting it into his chest. Even though he hadn't hit him as hard as he could, the ODST's armor cracked. At the same time the OSDT with the Fuel Rod Cannon had made to punch the offender in the back. The resulting debacle left the ODST clutching his chest and left shoulder blade, gasping for air. 177 couldn't find words to say and grabbed the ODST and started to haul him along for a couple steps before releasing him. While it was tempting, no soldier gets left behind. The same applied to civilians in Andrew's mind. The second ODST, the one who punched the offender, walked up next to 177.

The team scanned the intersection before crossing at a quick run. They slowed, making sure their foot steps hadn't and wouldn't give them away.

"Name's Wallcroft," the Heavy Weapons ODST said after a minute. He had a severe southern drawl, but didn't seem to have the same poor grammar that went with it. He extended a hand. While on a regular basis Spartan's and ODST's were pulled apart for starting brawls, this one seemed friendly enough. He took his hand and shook it before checking his motion tracker and looking around.

"I'm apologize about that. Hernandez is kind of a blood thirsty guy. It's a shame he'd just shoot a civilian like that," Wallcroft explained. 177 didn't say anything but he nodded his head. He didn't want the team finding out it was his mom in front of them. ONI would know, but he could just lie and say it was a civilian fighting Covenant. Whatever punishment came, it would be worth it to save her.

"So how does one exactly join your outfit?" Wallcroft asked, breaking the silence. He checked behind them to make sure they weren't being followed. 177 thought for a moment to exactly how he had joined. The first thing he remembered of his Spartan days was waking up, being escorted off of a Pelican, covered in bruises he knew he didn't go to bed with. Since none of the other trainees had any, Andrew had come to the conclusion he hadn't originally wanted to go. He had always had a feeling he hadn't wanted to be there, to want to slink into the shadows. It wasn't until Doctor Halsey had spoken with them all that he had even wanted to fight.

"It's more of a chosen thing, not really a sign up deal," 177 said the ODST. He certainly was much nicer than most, considering the rivalry and all between the two teams. They were on the same team, weren't they?

"Ok, cool. Lemme know if anyone's asking for some extra Spartans?" the ODST laughed, which was odd to hear from one on a battle field, not in a bar and beer'd up to his ears.

177 cracked a smile from under his helmet. Knowing they weren't far from the Pelican, 177 scanned the horizon. While he didn't have direct visual confirmation of the drop ship, he saw the thermal trail rising up; the sundown behind it casting the sky in yellow as ShortSword's and Banshee's fought overhead. They hurried forward, still checking but this time making for an all out sprint to the finish. 177 took point, charging up the road.

"We're almost there!" 177 yelled. But his yell was cut off by a plasma burst; a woman screamed. Andrew didn't to took, but he already knew what was taking place behind him. He turned slowly, afraid to see what was there as embers flew past his body.

As he turned around, he realized for the first time his training had failed him. He had gotten careless and now they were under attack. Three Elites in their odd white armor configurations with the Energy Swords and plasma pistols advanced.

The African leader was the first to go as an Elite swiped up between his legs, cleanly diving him in half, armor and all. As they chopped off his split head, another died as the ODST was blasted in the face. The one who had wanted to leave his mom died when another Elite stabbed him through the cracked armor and twisted. The leaders body hadn't even hit the ground and they were quickly dwindling to their final numbers. As the ODST's fell, Wallcroft stood by Andrew's mom. At least what remained of her.

From the waist down, she wasn't recognizable. Her skin, clothes and flesh had burnt and fused to her now very skinny scarred legs. Her screaming filled the air as her lungs never seemed to empty. With tears in his eyes Andrew knew there was only one way the screaming would stop. He reached down and picked up the pistol, aiming it for her head. The world seemed to slow as he softly spoke.

"Sorry mom."

Her screaming died out, realizing that the end was nigh. She tore at her neck, tearing the chain off. She raised a fist, something enclosed in her hand. "Take care of your father."

Andrew gently took it as his mom slowly weakened, and finally fell. Tears streamed from his face, wondering if his mom had gone crazy in her last moments. The chain slipped out of his grip, but something small remained in his hand. He opened his hand and stopped crying momentarily as he stared at the glowing cube in his hand. It was an AI. Mom must have made him an AI after he died, for...

His thoughts were cut off as both he and Wallcroft were kicked by the Elites, flying backwards from the immense force. Without even thinking about it, 177 slapped the cube into the base of his neck, at the bottom of his helmet. The two hit the ground hard and his ears were pretty sure he heard something break in the ODST's body.

It was an odd feeling, having an AI "share" you mind with you. His mind seemed to be filled, like he was once hollow. He got that feeling he had whenever his father had read him stories of far away worlds, and taught him how to shoot. It could only be described as fatherly.

"Run," came his fathers voice, smoother than he remembered. 177 picked himself as the Elites were advancing. The Energy Swords crackled as the three roared as they charged for him and the ODST, who still lay on the ground, coughing up blood. It poured from his cracked helmet visor, like it was his face.

"Actually, I was thinking I was going to crush their faces in." 177 moved fast, almost breaking the mount off the ODST's back, picking up the Fuel Rod Cannon. The Elites kept coming, fury in their eyes.

177 watched the front portion slide forward as the targeting system came online. The world quieted as it waited, it seemed like not even the Elite's were making noises as they prepared the final dash.

A tiny little high pitch beep penetrated the din of 177's mind. And with that, the world returned to normal.

177 discharged the first shots, hitting each Elite in the chest, halting their advance. He kept firing at each, not even bothering to see which was the most deadly to him. All he could feel was the recoil; hear the explosions; see the green shots rain down on the three Elites.

The Spartan, with an animal rage in his eyes, reloaded faster than anyone possibly ever could. The green fire storm completely obliterated the enemy. When it was empty and he saw that the Elites were anything but alive, he chucked the Cannon in their direction. He screamed like a human gone mad.

177 emptied his lungs, still feeling full of rage. Seeing the crippled ODST sobered him up as he picked up his Sniper Rifle and attached it to his back, wishing that moment for a jet pack just to fly away.

"Can you get up?" 177 asked.

"No, I don't think I can," Wallcroft replied, coughing more blood and visibly shaking. 177 leaned down and picked him up as gingerly as he could. Wallcroft puked and let it trail out the bottom of his helmet. To anyone who hadn't experienced the hardship of battle, it was disgusting. But to Spartan 177, it was heart breaking. Saddening to watch a good solider fall to a level such as this.

"Ahh fuck it," Wallcroft said weakly. "Leave me. I ain't making it. Abandon me, leave me to die. You aren't going to make it with me."

I ain't abandoning shit," John said as he started running towards the Pelican. He moved like he never had before, the houses around him turning into blurs. 177 barely saw plasma shots fly by him. The Pelican started to take off, but Troopers waved him on, telling him he had to make it, that he was right there. Plasma shots hit his head, the heat cracking the visor...

The world snapped back to reality, the Pelican turning into the Falcon that had come to save them from the Scarab behind them. 177 and D-183 threw themselves inside, both screaming it the pilot to take off. Before they knew it, they were soaring away, leaving the Grim Reaper to find them another day.

D-183 flopped down in a chair and removed his helmet. Chocolate brown eyes complemented his dark brown crew cut hair. He wiped his forehead, even though not a single bead of sweat adorned it. Andrew knew the sign well, it was an old reflex from the trainee days.

177 removed his own helmet. Barely an eighth of an inch of dark blond hair adorned his head, his gray blue eyes piercing the distance between them. He reached into his hard case and withdrew a small pouch.

"Victory gum?" D-183 said, his voice flowing smoother now without the helmet.

"Better," Andrew said, and withdrew two piece of cherry flavored hard candy in the shape of a doughnut. D-183 eagerly accepted the peace offering. The two Spartans let the candy sit on their tongues all the way back to base, enjoying the sweet savory treat. Andrew secretly slipped the small cube into the bag, hiding his father away until such time having him around wouldn't be noticed. He closed his eyes and leaned back, deciding to finish up the last of his memory.

177 didn't know how they made it, but they did. He slumped next to the ODST, who lay on the deck. It must have been an odd sight to see an ODST and a Spartan getting along, especially to the 2 medics tending to his wounds. The ODST's helmet had been removed, Andrew was surprised to see that Wallcroft was bald. Greenish brown eyes stared around wistfully, the adrenaline in his system keeping him a little loopy not that he wasn't moving.

Andrew removed his helmet and carefully removed the AI, slipping it into his hard case. He withdrew a small pouch, and pulled out a piece of gum.

"He can't have that," one of the medics said as Wallcroft reached for it. "He's bad enough as is, we don't want him choking and dying on us now."

Andrew pocketed the gum, but not before he saw a couple doughnut shaped hard candies in one of the medics bag. 'Must be a diabetic.'

Wallcroft followed his gaze, and looked back up at Andrew. "If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die. But no fucking candy ever did in a HellJumper." Andrew nodded and waited for the medics to look away before snitching two pieces.

The two opened the small individual pouches, both using their teeth to tear it open. They snacked on the pieces, enjoying a moment of bliss in this harsh wartime. Turbulence kicked at the Pelican, but the two warriors never noticed.

Off in reality, one medic yelled at the Spartan for not having his helmet on and forced a spare black ODST helmet into his hands as the other screamed about giving the ODST candy in such critical condition.

"I owe you 177," Wallcroft said, grasping the Spartans hand.

"Call me Andrew, cheater of death or I'll feed you to an Elite dressed in some lingerie."

"Kinky, the boys will get a kick out of that. Call me Hitch."

**Hope you enjoyed! More is on the way!**


	3. Finding Truth

**We return to 177's past. But the focus is not him, rather the weapon that has a big enough bullet that the weapon itself is termed, Anti-Personnel.**

The small outpost the Spartan's had landed at was like any other makeshift base. A large canvas tent served as the communication hub and the operation command for the "campsite". As the Falcon took off and the two new Spartans stared at each other, they would have almost thought a war didn't exist.

Some classic rock song about a girl and a number played from a radio, obviously brought in from a Marine. A group of ten or twelve Spartan's were in a circle, watching a pair of Spartan's in a hand to hand challenge. Even to the super soldier Spartans, the movements were only blurs as each move was perfectly countered. A couple loners polished their their weapons, but 177 could still hear them laugh at jokes from the second group of Spartan's sitting on the ground. It almost looked like the campfires they had as recruits, when they were stuck in these very forests training for Spartan life.

Deciding against going into a tent that sounded like it was full of Command's cronies, 177 followed his fellow Spartan's course of action; loosen up. He found two good sized boulders and sat, motioning for D-183 to sit.

Andrew took a moment to look at his helmet, the black visor reflecting his strong cut face. He looked up, D-183's chocolate brown eyes looking at him curiously.

"Where did you get all that high tech equipment?" D-183 asked. Andrew looked at his armor. While it wasn't nearly as beefy as most Spartan's armor, something could be said for 177's. It was cut just enough to where he could move quickly, but it was still thick and though enough to endure some serious punishment. 177 rolled his shoulders back, showing off the armor a little.

"Next time we get back to base, go to the armory. They like to to keep a small stash of parts there. Just tell them you wanna test it out, generally they are pretty nice about it." Andrew thought his voice sounded a little too much like his father's. But he was happy to know his voice still had its usual commanding roughness. Andrew set his helmet next to him and drew his Sniper Rifle out, cradling it as a father would his first born. The new scratch marks added less than an hour ago shone proudly in the sun, the older ones showing their test to time as something more than indents, though their shine had since died away.

"What's the story with that anyways?" D-183 said, pointing at the well-worn Sniper Rifle. "With your skill, you could use pretty much any other weapon and achieve the same result."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Andrew said, unloading the rifle and placing the magazine back into a pouch. "The Truth here; she and I go way back…"

"Get yer slimy sore asses in here!" yelled a grizzly voice from within the small building. Andrew, or 177 to the trainers when they were pissed, ran into the building with nine other recruits. He was thankful he wasn't going on one of the 20 mile runs Chief Mendez had been putting them through for the past week. He was back on the range, somewhere he felt he truly belonged already on the table were ten of the M6G Magnum handguns, and two clips for each. He hid his excitement and got with his fellow recruits shoulder to shoulder.

'Head and eyes forward, hands along seam of the trousers, 1000 yard stare," Andrew thought to himself. He had to be perfect. He wanted to be better than the rest. The sergeants voice broke the din of his mind, focusing him back to reality.

"Well now, you maggots look like you just stepped out of a fucking recruiting poster!" Sergeant yelled. He smiled and pulled a chair up, sitting down lazily. Even the cigarette in his mouth hung down, as if too tired to stand proudly out of the Sergeant's mouth. Andrew tried to focus on the grizzly dry words. He could tell from the way he felt the air stiffen that his fellow recruits were on the same page as him. All they wanted to do was sit down and rest their worn legs.

"So Chief tells me you all are to have one more practice session before you runts take your qualifying session. I hear all of your lot will be receiving your marksmanship ribbon," the Sergeant spoke, at a normal level this time.

"YES SERGEANT!" the ten recruits yelled. Their voice echoed in the small building and ran out onto the surprisingly quiet range.

"Don't fuckin' yell at me! I ain't one of those neat and trim assholes who has to hear their rank to feel proud of themselves," Sergeant yelled back. "Come on, ya'll be scaring me, loosen up a little." He said, returning to his normal voice. He drew long and hard on the cigarette, the red tip lighting his rugged face, which certainly hadn't been shaved in a while. "Well come on now, like it happened yesterday."

Uncertain, the recruits started slipping out of attention, leaning their back to the wall, crossing their arms or stretching before squatting. Andrew liked his guy already. He wasn't nearly as high strung as everyone else seemed to be.

"Now then, I'm obviously not your regular instructor. I like to work things a little differently. So now, I want you all to just start shooting whenever you like. Remember these words; Quality, Control, Fire. Off you go." Sergeant waved them on.

Andrew felt bad that somehow he was the first to the table and to the gates. He pulled up to "#5" and placed his pistol and magazines on the table. Andrew pulled the oversized yellow ear mufflers over his head. M6G felt like an unfriendly neighbor in his hand. He couldn't keep Chief Mendez's voice out of his head, yelling at him for this and that. Andrew noticed he wasn't the only one, the rest of his teammates shots were wild, even at only a 20 yard range.

"Oh for fuck's sake. All you put down those pea shooters before you take someone's foot as your first kill." There was a resounding sound of the pistols being put down as they walked back to the table where the Sergeant sat, with one .50 caliber bullet standing on end. "Gather 'round," he said as the recruits joined him, circling the small table.

"Empty your minds, take a deep breath," Sergeant said. Stare at that bullet, empty your mind of everything but that round."

It was hard at first, but Andrew slowly felt his body relax as the image of the large pointed round filled his mind. It seemed like eons when Sergeant had called them back from the meditation.

"Quality, Control, Fire. Remember it, and remember it well. Take your time, put the shots where you want to put them. Speed comes after you master Control. Quality, make sure you're using the right tool for the right job. Locate the place that matters most. Control, focus yourself. Steady your weapon and point it where you want it to go. Fire, simple enough. Now hop to!"

Andrew walked back over to the "#5" stall and picked up the M6G. It felt more like the weapon he had shot on the range so many times before. He held his fire, hovering the sights right over the black circle of in the distance as he listened to the sounds of the small arms beat of the pistols around him. A unfamiliar feeling began to creep up his spine. The world seemed to slow as he looked at the target. The odd tingle seemed to focus in his head and hands. Even before he could think to stop, the short bark filled his stall as Andrew felt his body fire off all eight rounds in quick succession. He was pulling the pistol's trigger as fast as he could, the rounds screaming down range as the casings fell to the ground. The slide locked to the rear when the magazine was empty, and as silence befell the range, Andrew knew he was in deep shit.

"Who the fuck thought he could just walk all over my little speech and being nice and just say screw this shit?" Sergeant walked up to the stalls, eyeing each one of the recruits, all of whom had placed the pistols back on the table.

"I did Sergeant," Andrew said, stepping forward. Sergeant said nothing, he just walked out to the range and grabbed his target. Andrew felt his stomach dropping, sinking into the region of his knees.

Sergeant looked at his target and then displayed it to the recruits. Andrew was hard pressed not to smile, all eight of his hits were in black, the nine or ten section. While it wasn't a nice grouping, they were all confirmed kills.

"That," Sergeant said, "Was balls-y. Normally I'm entitled to to slap the shit out of you right now, but I'm impressed. Just don't do that shit again." Andrew couldn't believe it, he was getting away with it. He was getting away with a screw up.

As the rest of the recruits returned to shooting, still slowly but Andrew could tell they were inspired by his stroke of good luck with this Sergeant.

"How would you like to try something a little more…" Sergeant said, choosing his words carefully. "A little more suited to you?" Andrew nodded like his life depended on it.

"Yes Sergeant."

Sergeant opened a gun case on the far wall, and retrieved a long barreled rifle with a rather bulky scope. "This my young padawan learner, is the SRS 99 Anti-Material. The Sniper Rifle of the UNSC." He smiled and handed Andrew the Sniper Rifle and a thick looking manual. Both felt heavier than they looked, and Andrew almost dropped the manual, opting to hold onto the Sniper Rifle.

"Tell me when you have field stripped this weapon and put it back together," Sergeant said, pointing to the table and walking to the next recruit who seemed to have gone through his two magazines.

Only a few minutes later, Andrew stood with a halfway dismantled Sniper Rifle. He felt like he had been standing there much longer than he had, searching through the mix matched pages for the next step. Others had come by, field stripping their weapons and reassembling quickly. Andrew felt himself starting to get frustrated, but finally he made it all the way to the end. He looked at the different parts; stock, barrel, body and the scope. Andrew smiled at his work, setting the very unhelpful manual to the side.

"Still here?" Sergeant asked. Andrew's smile disappeared, noticing for the first time that his teammates had all moved on to different weapons, all with a decent pile of ammo for each weapon in each stall. "Don't worry about it," Sergeant said, snapping the Sniper Rifle back together in a matter of seconds. "Being a marksman requires patience." He held the rifle out for Andrew. "Being a Sniper means waiting for the one true perfect shot. Preferably when the enemy has his pants down and cant do shit." Sergeant laughed at his own vulgarity, and Andrew took the Sniper Rifle. "Come on, let's take a couple shots," Sergeant said, grabbing Andrew and the chair, leading him to the stall.

Andrew loaded the box magazine, having spent enough time with the manual to know this particular weapon better than most know themselves. Spotting the 100 yard target towards the middle of the range, Sergeant forced him into the chair and set the bipod up for him on the Sniper Rifle. Andrew sighted in, having only to zoom in once to see the target. The tingle from earlier was coming back, the world again slowed around him. He breathed out, steadying his aim, slowly squeezing the trigger.

Andrew was not expecting the recoil to be as much as it was. The rifle boomed, shaking him to his core. Even with the ear mufflers, his ears rang. He would have noticed dust falling from the ceiling is he had the time to; Andrew and Sniper Rifle flew back, knocking over chair and falling to a pile on the ground.

Recruits stumbled around the corner of their stalls, most weren't wearing ear mufflers, obviously enjoying the sound of their weapons. They looked at him, but realizing he was ok made no motion to start calling for medics. Sergeant picked Andrew up with one hand, barking at the other recruits to get shooting unless they wanted to go run. The recruits promptly returned to firing their weapons.

Sergeant returned the chair to its rightful position and Andrew sat down. "Hold the rifle to your shoulder, like it's a baby," he said, demonstrating. "The truth hurts, just don't let it be the end of you. Let cold honest truth kill the enemy, make sure the truth is delivered, right into their thick skulls." He waved a .50 Caliber around as if to prove his point.

Though the grizzled man looked like he cared very little about anything, and even less about rules and regulation, he couldn't help but feel glad to be in the presence of their odd instructor.

As the day went on, Sergeant put them through different exercises, most of which Andrew missed. Each time Andrew fired, because of the lack of body weight, Andrew felt the chair stand shakily on two legs. The almost flight would last only a second, but he would crash to earth and take only three or four seconds to reset himself and fire again. The loud report sent chills down Andrews spine. This was his weapon, he knew it. At the ranges this thing could be effective, the enemy would be dead before they even knew he was there.

Sadly the sun was getting ready to set and Sergeant called them back to the table. Even though they had only been shooting most of the day, the ten recruits felt exhausted. He and another recruit, who was given the M45 Tactical Shotgun, were both nursing shoulder bruises from a couple shots where the butt of the stock slammed into their respective shoulders. They all hurt in some manner or another, but grins adorned their faces.

"Take what you've learned from here, learn from it, and take it seriously." Sergeant stood proudly, the closest to an instructor all day long. "Your weapon is your life. Without it you are nothing. Never leave your weapon behind. Now go to the barracks and wait to be collected."

"Yes Sergeant!" the ten recruits sounded off. Sergeant walked out the door as the recruits set their weapons on the table and filed out the door.

Andrew stood still, conflicted. He was heading back into an unknown world. Andrew knew the trainers weren't going to kill him, but Andrew didn't feel reassured. He liked the tingle he got, the tingle he was having right now just by holding it. Without any second thoughts, Andrew field stripped it and slipped the parts into his sweats. With there wasn't a lot of room, it was the best thing he had. He jogged as best he could back to the barracks and his bunk. In the confines of the barracks he had that feeling he was doing something very wrong but he ignored it. He carefully slipped the parts out and slid them under his mattress; feeling grateful for a bottom rack. He sighed, happily. even though the rules he had broken would certainly get him killed, he felt safer. Andrew patted the mattress.

177 looked at the clock and decided he had enough time to take a quick rinse in the showers. The sound of the showers reaffirmed he wasn't alone in this thought process. Quietly he spoke with some of the other recruits of what had happened that day. It was one of those moments that good news for anyone was generally good for anyone. Andrew gently rubbed his shoulder, which was starting to shift from a purple to a black bruise.

Spartan 177 had just finished drying off when he stepped out of the shower room to go put on a clean pair of sweats. He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Two trainers had lifted his mattress and were inspecting the disassembled Sniper Rifle.

"Oh are we going to have fun," one of them said as they rounded on Andrew, electric batons raised high.

Andrew could never remember experiencing so much pain.

**Woot! Yes this is only part one. My desire to upload tonight was greater than my want to put it all in one. So I leave you with a bit of a cliffhanger. XD**


	4. Eye for pain

**I apologize! I have made this one short, and made you wait a good couple days. I promise the next one will be up to a usual thickness. So for now, enjoy!**

The electric baton slammed into Andrew's back for what seemed like the thousandth time. Tears had run out, nothing more than a gasp escaped his mouth. He hated running. It felt like he wasn't ever facing his problems, and he was just avoiding them. Like he was scared.

The two Mongoose ATV's puttered along beside him, their passengers brandishing the batons that had been beating on him the last couple hours. Andrew knew he was barely into his punishment, the trainers weren't going to let this one fly, considering he had in fact snuck it past them. Someone had tipped them off, he knew it. There was no way they could have seen it. Sweat dripped down his face and he made a move to wipe it, but not before one of the trainers swiped at his shin, tripping him up. While the batons were normally only used sparingly by trainer ideals, the jolt was more than enough to wake him up. It was more of the physical blow that made him feel like crap. Gravel and dirt ground into his face, crunching up the left side of his face. His palms, already torn from semi-falls, had more rubble ground in as he attempted to slow with more than his face. The front of his sweats tore up a little, making a small hole exposing the left side of his chest. For a fourteen year old, he was well built, like that of an 18 year old olympian. Andrew wanted nothing more to sleep. As the Mongoose's rounded on him, another thought entered his head. 'I just wanna shoot.'

Remembering the freaky feeling, Andrew got up and continued his run around the compound. He didn't know when it would end, probably never at this rate. Andrew clung to the feeling like it was his only saving grace. The hurt of the gun hitting his shoulder seemed like a familiar friend compared to the smack of the batons. His skin never burnt, but his sweats started to fall apart, mainly on his shoulder blades where they apparently liked to hit him.

After a couple hours more of going around the compound, they made a short stop to refuel. Andrew lay sprawled out, calling out obscenities in his head to the voice telling him to get up and stretch. It didn't matter though; before his muscles could even start to cramp and stiffen, Andrew was running again. This time he had to dodge trees and branches as they drove him through the forests of Reach. It would have been beautiful and relaxing if not for the beat of the sticks.

Focusing on the feeling of his Sniper Rifle was no longer helping him. 'I fucking earned that!' His mind screamed. Anger raged at him to lash out, to take those guards out. Most of the guards probably still remembered the Pelican incident, in which all of the Spartan II's had, instead of leave one behind like instructed, took out the guards with nothing more than rocks and sticks and went home. It was a good day, the guy who took charge, John, that was his name, had been promoted to squad leader.

Andrew jumped, missing a swing from one of the trainers, but was rewarded with several smacks to his lower back. He felt his skin break and his hot blood mix with sweat as it ran down his back. A hit to his calves sent Andrew stumbling, reaching for empty air. Nothing came to his rescue, but he stayed upright.

A branch smacked Andrew clear in the face, causing a perfect clothesline. He spun end to end before landing in a heap on the ground. The pair of Mongoose turned around, preparing to give him something of a drive by with batons.

Disoriented and furiously enraged, Andrew stood. Both his sweatshirt and pants with destroyed, more holes than fabric after all the bumps and tumbles. Most of it was dark from him bleeding and sweating, scrapes now ran the length of his body.

Somewhere in his mind, he knew this was a bad idea. He picked up a fallen branch the size of a baseball bat. Gathering his rage, he swung at the oncoming ATV. It hit a trainer driving in the head. His passenger was able to get in a crippling stomach shot. Andrew vomited, going to his knees.

"We're done playing games!" a trainer yelled. The batons came down and Andrew felt no more.

177 woke up in his own bunk. He felt terrible, having woken up on his back. He tried to shift to his side, but was stopped as a wave of pain hit him. His back felt terrible, his legs like they didn't even belong to him. He grunted, trying to clear his throat.

The first thing he noticed was that the compartment felt empty of recruits. There wasn't a single Spartan in the barracks. He didn't expect it, but he still couldn't tell what day it was. Andrew darted his eyes around, trying to gain perspective in a world with no movement.

"What you did was wrong," said a voice. It sounded familiar. Andrew turned to see the Doctor he had met when he arrived. Her greying hair framed her face; she sat on a bunk opposite of him, peering at him.

Andrew adjusted his body much to the pain so he could see her properly. He winced, but he didn't let anything more show. He sat up, much to the discomfort of his back.

"Feeling better already. This is good," Dr. Halsey said. She seemed to be checking off a list in her head. A stone dead silence passed between them. Andrew never had anything to say to his superiors, regardless if they were civilian or not. At least not anything worth saying.

"Have you learned from your mistake?" Halsey asked.

Andrew made to nod, but his back tensed. A small gasp escaped his lips, though he wished that she didn't hear it. "Yes Ma'am," Andrew finally said.

"That's good to hear 177," Halsey said. "I came down to congratulate you." Those last words surprised him.

"Pardon?" Andrew asked, confused. He was alarmed he had remembered his manners he was so confused.

"To congratulate you, 177." Halsey repeated. "On your ingenuity and courage. Not many would be nearly as brash as you. Though I'll let you know, I saw you leave with it." Andrew's eyes snapped open, she had seen him leave with it. She paused and got up, walking for the door. "Keep it up 177. We may need you. Chow is in 45. I suggest you clean up."

"Ma'am," Andrew replied, jumping to his feet, ignoring the curses from his legs. Andrew grabbed a fresh pair of sweats, feeling grateful that the punishment had been simple. Though as long as it was, Andrew was in no mood to return to it. He stripped down, placing his shredded clothes under the mattress, where the Sniper Rifle used to be. He felt even more naked than he was right now. The smell of cordite wafted to him, reminding him of his faraway friend. Who knows where the brand new shiny Sniper Rifle was.

Andrew grabbed the clean sweats and headed to the showers. He placed them on a shelf, turned on the water, and sat, letting the water run down his huddled form. It was never warm, but he didn't shiver at its touch. He just sat there, taking in what had happened over the last 24 hours. Andrew closed his eyes, not really feeling much in the way of emotion, just accepting the pain. The anger lied dormant, like a wolf perched on a cliff, watching over the forest. It would be back.

The young Spartan didn't know it, but quite a few of his bones were broken. Halsey had known, but none of them were severe enough to put him in care. Besides, the augmentation was going to be in a week, just after the weapons test.

Andrew had no idea what was coming.

177 was starting to get used to the M6G pistol when Chief Mendez told him and the fellow recruits to put them down. Andrew placed the empty weapon on the table and stood at attention. While he couldn't quite see his target, Andrew didn't see any holes in the white portion of his paper. He smiled inside, breathing in the smell of cordite. Andrew barely heard the Chief tell him to get the hell out of his sight, and he hustled along with the other recruits. Once outside the door, he heard him being called.

"177!" it was a grizzly voice, and one Andrew recognized. He fell out of line and was face to face with the man only known to him as Sergeant.

"Sergeant!" 177 barked, greeting the Marine.

"Heard you got in a spot of trouble due to me 177," Sergeant said. His stubble had gotten worse, it was well on its way to being a full grown beard. Andrew didn't say anything, not knowing how to respond to the man who told him that without a weapon you were worthless.

"I wanted to make it up to you, you'll make a fine soldier," Sergeant told him, his voice lowering. He didn't get to finish, because right then Andrew heard his number being called by the squad leader, John 117.

"Sorry, gotta dash," Andrew said before ducking out the door. Andrew didn't want to get in trouble at all for disobeying his direct superior. His mind pondered what the Sergeant had wanted to tell him. It stayed with him all day, and into the night.

John had told him they would be leaving tomorrow, so as Andrew lay on his rack, it was another thing that kept him up. His anger was at bay, but Andrew couldn't help but feel he wasn't healing. It hurt to breathe most of the time, but he refused to say anything. He stretched slowly, trying not to upset the balance between pain and doing ok. It wasn't long though before a light came on and the Spartan's jumped out of their racks.

Several medic came in and formed them up against the wall. It didn't take long, and the troop was on their way. Andrew kept his head and eyes forward, knowing that the Sniper Rifle incident had already screwed his 'goody two shoes' track record. It was hard not to stare at the sight that beheld them when they had reached the outdoors.

A destroyer, one of the most powerful ships in the UNSC hung above them, preparing to block out the moonlight. A Pelican sat in front of them, engines already heated and ready to go. Andrew followed his fellow teammates on and strapped in. He had no idea where they were going, or what was going to happen. His heart beat somewhere in the region of his throat. Though he hadn't really made friends with anyone, they all respected each other at the very least. Andrew looked at John, who looked just as confused as he. Andrew gripped the harness as they blasted into the sky.

"Well, here goes nothing."

**Ok, next up is the augmentation. Hope everyone is ready, because out of the 75 originally selected, only 33 made it alive and ok. The process was really the only thing to kill a Spartan...**


	5. Augmentation, heart for a rifle

**Ok, so not as big as I was hoping, but big enough. I wanted to wrap up the flashbacks to we could move on and get back to killing the Covenant. So here you have it.**

Andrew lay on the white bed. Everything was bright, but that was probably just due to the whiteness of everything. He squinted his eyes and raised his head, curious as to what was going on.

The rest of the Spartans were in glass cubicles, lying on white beds, in a simple white gown like he was. Their recently shaved heads looked like shiny domes to him. He looked around at his comrades. He still didn't know what was happening to them, but Andrew had a feeling that it was serious business. Doctors rushed to talk with Dr. Halsey, who at the moment stood in the middle of the hallway, a good distance away from him. She had just stepped out of one of the rooms where one of his teammates was, Andrew couldn't tell who it was from here. The other doctors scrambled to action, and the medical AI next to him spoke.

"Please lay down 177," the AI spoke softly, sweetly. Andrew did as he was instructed. A machine placed an oxygen mask over his face. "Please breathe normally." Andrew did as he was instructed, but it still took a couple seconds for the oxygen to come to him. He listened as hard as he could, hearing not much else other than something in the room winding up, charging. He couldn't help but feel rushed, tense, as if something was about to happen.

A couple minutes later Dr. Halsey walked into the room. "177; Andrew," she said in a droning voice, like she had done it for each of the Spartan's.

"Yes ma'am?" Andrew said, choosing to respond to what was clearly a meant to be internal monologue. For some reason he found it was getting harder to think clearly, to see straight. He tried to focus on her, but found her face to be muddied. "What's happening to me?"

"We're making you into the finest soldiers the UNSC has ever seen," she said, looking from the machine to him. She typed furiously on the data pad, relaying instructions to each machine what to do.

"I thought we already were," Andrew said sleepily. It sounded stupid now that he had said it.

Dr. Halsey laughed, and turned to walk out of the room without another word. It was with this silence that the process began. Andrew, like the recruits before him, suddenly slipped from the world, and into sleep.

Then, the augmentation began.

If they were awake for it, and you could see the world like watching their souls, it was one of the darkest times for the Spartan's. The walls were black, covered in blood. Their blood. The Spartan's added their own screams as their bodies were transformed. They shook, trying to fight what was being done, but it was useless. No one came to their help. Some of the Spartan's found themselves being twisted into inhuman shapes, while others started winking out, like candles in a stiff wind. To say it was a war with life and death in the balance would be incorrect. It was a slaughter, where the lucky few would manage to survive.

Thankfully, the Doctors attending the Spartan's were walking down white corridors, checking from room to room as the augmentation took place. Though none of the Spartan's would remember the pain from the drug induced sleep, there would be a reminder that it had happened. That it was a deadly rite of passage. That it was going to kill them if it could.

"Got another one down here!" a doctor called, hearing the incessant beep of a heart monitor calling out. Dr. Halsey ran from room to room, hoping that it was their heart simply fluctuating from the drugs. Sadly, the Spartan's began to drop off around her like flies introduced to a wall of fire.

Dr. Halsey, approached 177's room, and felt grief at his passing. She had felt sadness and something resembling pain at each Spartan's passing. But several of the Spartan', 177 for instance, was one of the few she was sure would have a greater impact. She quickly glanced at her data pad, and seing that 117 was doing ok, she turned to the situation at hand. Doctors scrambled around him with a defibrillator, trying to restart him before they would have to unplug him and put him in the freezer. The biochemicals had all been administered successfully, but it was the reactions that were tearing her Spartan's to pieces. 177 would have been a good Spartan, a great Spartan. His time before the augmentation was a good example. Most certainly resourceful. Never say die spirit. Though he never voiced it, nor tried to make friends, he was loyal to every one of them.

With a small shock 177 came back to life, his heart beating full and strong. Dr. Halsey sighed, grateful that this Spartan was still kicking. He made a note on her data pad and hurried off for the others, for more monitors down the hall warned them that a Spartan had lost his or her life.

An hour later a shady looking character strode down the hall. He was a rough and tumble looking guy, a hefty salt and pepper beard in full blossom. In his hands he carried two things; Dr. Halsey's access card, and a long package, it was easily three feet in length, if not longer. He turned into one of the rooms, careful not to let his name tag show to the camera. He stared at the young boy in the bed. He straightened up, almost to attention, as if the boy, who seemed a bit bigger than when he last saw him, deserved such respect. His name plate clearly read out 'WALLCROFT'. To the boy in front of him, the sergeant in front of him was only known by his rank.

"Thought I outta give you this, seeing as you did manage to take it for your own," Sergeant Wallcroft said, hefting the wrapped Sniper Rifle up a bit. "I expect they will take it and hold onto it until you officially graduate, so I'm givin' it to the nice Dr. lady for safe keeping." Andrew's only response was a heart flutter. Though the remaining Spartan's were alive and well, this one seemed to not be doing well. Without another second, his heart monitor rang for the second time.

"Oh no you fuckin' don't," Sgt. Wallcroft said, dropping the ID card and the wrapped rifle. They clattered to the ground as he rushed to the Spartan and began compressions on the boy's chest. The Sergeant searched anxiously around, but the doctors that were there before had already finished their work. "Come on you runt!"

Sweat broke out along the Sergeant's face, fear creeped up his back that this one was gone for good. He redoubled his efforts, noticing how hard it was. The young boy's chest didn't even move when he pressed with all his might against him.

Spotting a defibrillator hanging on the wall, Sgt. Wallcroft broke for it in a full on sprint. It didn't matter anymore if the security camera had seen his face or nameplate, a life were on the line. He charged back into the room, yelling. "You're a soldier for fuck's sake! Get together!" It seemed to take forever for the machine to charge. Wallcroft pounded the pads to the Spartan, and his body jerked in response.

Like a slow computer, nothing happened at first. Without warning, 177's heart restarted like nothing had happened. The Spartan was kicking, this time for good. Sgt. Wallcroft stared at the young boy's heart, panting from the sudden emergency.

"You better not ever even think of dying again. You owe me." He paused, as if searching for words. "If my son ever becomes an ODST like he says he is, you better shape the fuck up and help him out." Sgt. Wallcroft picked up the two items and left the room. Now to give Dr. Halsey her key back.

Sergeant Wallcroft didn't make it far before Dr. Halsey rammed into him. "Sorry 'bout that ma'am," Wallcroft grumbled. Dr. Halsey seemed far too worried to be concerned with the Sergeant. She tried to take off again, but Sergeant restrained her. "Don't worry, 177 is fine. He's alive."

"That's the second time he's done that today," Halsey said, composing herself.

"Dirty bastard," Wallcroft responded, handing her the wrapped rifle and her ID card.

"He might, they all might one day save us," Halsey said, defending the remaining sleeping Spartan's.

"That'll be the day," Wallcroft said, ducking into a hallway, disappearing from sight.

The world returned to present day, a light breeze swept through the outpost as the Spartan finished his story. "When we went on our first mission, I received that Sniper Rifle. I haven't parted with it since." Andrew smiled, and patted the Sniper Rifles side. D-183 seemed to be holding back a case of rolling laughter, which 177 immediately picked up on it.

"What?" the gray and blue Spartan asked. "Sure I got my ass kicked, but it was worth it." D-183 kept snickering, but finally settled down.

"Whatever happened to that Sergeant?" the shorter Spartan asked.

"Rumor is that he died a couple years later. There was a letter from him, telling me that if I didn't repay my debt to him, that it passed to his son. And that if I needed anything, tell them 'Bear' sent me. Turns out he had a reputation as a Sniper, and a damned good on too. I eventually get get to pay off my debt, but I'm thankful his son is as good as Sergeant was." D-183 seemed to ignore it, and 177 couldn't help but understand. Most Spartan's didn't worry or think about much other than the next mission. Andrew was happy that the patience he had learned over the years had taught him to appreciate everything, including his enemy. For as much as they were bastards, if you didn't respect the enemy, they ended up grabbing you by the short hairs. History was a witness to that.

177 reattached the Sniper Rifle and looked D-183 over. "Let's get you a weapon and some upgrades to what you call armor right there." The two stood and walked back towards the camp to mingle with the other Spartan's. It wouldn't be long before orders would be given and they would be pulling back to the city as two would be headed off to the armory.

**Whew, the second in one day! But now that we are back to the present, Reach is the problem now. More coming up soon!**


	6. Refit, reload

**So I figured I'd spit this one out for all ya'll. Besides, the real D-183 would probably blow something of mine up if I waited any longer *laughs, but checks behind self just in case***

177 barely felt to the bump in the road, but D-183 was almost launched out of his seat. "What are you trying to do, get me killed?" the angry Spartan yelled, but the steel and blue armored Spartan laughed it off, driving off the closest hill for some more air.

"I swear if we get out of this alive, I'm going to kill you!" D-183 yelled, gripping the restraints as tightly as he could. The Warthog's wheels spun, skidding a little when they touched down again. Andrew sobered up his driving, wondering if D-183 was going to throw up. "From now on, I'm driving," D-183 said quietly.

"Pfft, whatever my friend," 177 waved him off. "I'd like to see you drive as well as I do."

"I bet I could, if you weren't so adamant in driving to begin with."

"What? I like it! Besides, no Spartan would ever let a Spartan with standard issue armor drive."

"That's a bunch of crap!" D-183 retorted.

"No it ain't. It's a part of the Replacements unwritten laws." 177 paused. "You are a Replacement, right?"

"Huh?"

"Your aren't placed in a squad yet, are you?"

"No, they just put me on that Falcon with you."

"Then you are a Replacement." 177 explained, driving very close to the trees. "You're like me. We aren't affiliated with any squads yet, we get sent out for either recon or some serious ass kicking."

"I don't like the idea of this," D-183 said. "I don't like the idea of replacing someone."

"Don't be such a wuss," 177 replied, smacking him in the arm. D-183 said nothing for the hit, choosing to rub his wounded pride.

"How did there get to be so many Spartan's without a team?" the gray Spartan asked.

177 shrugged. "We all have our stories. I myself was on loan to a group of marines. Some of us sadly had teams that were blow to bits and they are all that's left." 177 made a left, heading to a bunker of some sorts, all that could be seen was a covered parking station and a door. With expert care 177 slid the Warthog into a spot and hopped out.

"I warn you now, these guys can get a little kooky. This facility is a fallback, so no one comes by often. But I know 'em. Good people."

"Good to know," the gray Spartan said quietly as they walked to the door. The door was thick, a couple grenades wouldn't bust it open. It was a very steep and narrow staircase down into blackness. They Spartans had to walk down sideways to be able to fit.

After what felt like a good couple hundred feet, light revealed a brown and red-ish room, old yellow lighting adding to the ambiance. Two older marines sat in wood chairs, both with the front legs off the ground. The room smelled of gun oil and polish; both Spartan's removed their helmets.

The first of the two to notice the large and armored guests was the short one. He was extremely short, maybe only four feet in height. He was skinny as well, he looked like all his clothes were about to slide off even from a sitting position. His eyes seemed bugified through huge thick goggles.

"Wake up!" he said in a quiet but deep voice. The other stirred. This one was the exact opposite, the second was large and very tall. A torn t-shirt left little to the imagination as the potbellied man stirred, his twirled handlebar mustache flicking this way and that. A newspaper slid off his lap, sending cigarette ashes flying. 177 reigned in a cough. He had never liked smoking. The smell was just nasty.

"What can I do ya for?" said an equally deep voice, but with a slight twang to it.

"I'm looking to get my friend here some upgrades. He has offered to try some stuff out," 177 replied. And I'm calling in some favors."

"Alright, I got the short guy," Short-n-skinny said. Considering that D-183 was short for a Spartan, it made sense. However it was slightly comical when the mechanic grabbed D-183 by the wrist and appered to be dragging him off.

"Favors ehh?" Fatty said. His belly jiggled as he stood and walked up to the Spartan. "As far as I'm concerned, you still owe me for the visor there."

"No I don't," besides, this isn't me asking for it." 177 grey blue eyes narrowed. "A one Sgt. 'Bear' sends his regards," Andrew said.

"Aww shit, you didn't have to go that far, you could have just asked!" Fatty clapped him on the shoulder, a wet meaty slap filled the subterranean base. The two walked into the next room where there was a large metal platform. It was a startup station for the MJOLNIR armor. Now it served as a place to attach new equipment.

"Sp whatcha need?" Fatty said, flicking on the lights with a giant sausage sized finger. Lights lit up on the back walls, illuminating hundreds of armor pieces and an assortment of spray cans. 177 looked over his armor and the pieces, trying to decide what he felt he needed. Mentally making his choice, he replaced his helmet on his head. 177 stepped onto the platform, letting Fatty hook him up. His suit powered down, now able to accept the base's power and upgrades.

"Gimme CQC shoulder pads, left and right," 177 said plainly.

"You know, for a Spartan who prefers to carry a Sniper Rifle, you sure do like getting in the thick of things," Fatty commented. It took a couple minutes, but finally Fatty had removed his MultiThreat shoulder pads.

"One more thing, you have gone through more pieces of armor than any Spartan. This stuff is supposed to last longer than you." Fatty waved the armor plating in his face before chucking it to the side."

"It least it's better than my last set. Or the set before that." 177 commented, remembering it took a good afternoon to removed the fused plates for his fifth set.

Fatty shook his head. "You're damn crazy you know that? I know half the Spartan's wouldn't try what you do." Fatty walked over the the shelf, trying to find the proper armor plates. "Well, your bicep sure as hell wont be hit with this on." He held up the large shoulder pads, already in the right color configuration.

"Planning on me switching over?"

"Don't get me wrong, MultiThreat has some serious advantages. Small enough to move quickly, not thick so it doesn't weigh you down, but its a rugged piece. You are the only Spartan I've ever seen break one. Crack one for that matter." Fatty looked worriedly at the new armor pieces. "Now this retains the light weight you are used to, to a level. But this is thicker and a ton bigger. Something tells me Reach isn't faring well.

177 lowered his head. "I got a bad feeling."

"You and those Wallcroft's. Always live by the gut," Fatty said. To those who didn't know him, they would say he sounded indifferent. 177 knew better, Fatty was depressed. Nothing more was said, Fatty just attached the armor plates. If 177 didn't know any better, he'd say Fatty was doing more than attaching new plates. Fatty was polishing up what he had on and buffing out the occasional chip. 177 remained quiet. While Fatty was still apart of the UNSC, he was just a mechanic. While a soldier, this war-pig was done fighting. The phrase, 'too old for this shit' came to mind.

Fatty didn't take long though; 177's armor hummed back to life, and with an electrical pop the suit returned to its normal state. Fatty detached hoses and flicked off the lights. In the complete darkness, Fatty couldn't see anything. He felt an armored hand grab his shoulder and walk him out of the room.

"We'll get them," 177 said coldly. "Speaking of which, I could do with an Assault Rifle and some ammo for 'Truth' here," 177 pointed to his Sniper Rifle.

"You got it," Fatty said, his usual demeanor returning. Back in the main room, Fatty pushed back the metal wire door, revealing a monster storage locker. There was at least 20 of every human weapon back there, with what looked like plenty of ammo for each. Even some Covenant weapons hung on the back wall. 177 spotted a familiar favorite.

"Sure you don't want a Bouncin' Betty?" Fatty asked, gesturing to the Fuel Rod Cannon. 177 smiled under his ODST styled helmet.

"Actually, I think I'll take a M45 Tac," 177 gestured to the shotgun. Fatty tossed it to him and put an ammo box full of shells on the counter. 177 loaded up the Shotgun, and Fatty placed several handfuls of magazines on the counter and a second ammo box, this one full of 14.5x114mm rounds. 177 only paused his loading up when he heard D-183 footsteps. He sounded heavier now.

"Christmas came early," D-183 said happily. His chocolate brown eyes reflected it. His armor was white, with blue being the secondary color like himself. The CQC left shoulder seemed odd, it contrasted with the Commando style right shoulder. He now wore the Commando chest plate and helmet, the blue visor adding a nice touch. The Grenadier knee braces certainly added a rugged look to him.

"Lookin' good there," 177 noted, completing D-183 choice in configuration. 177 turned back to Fatty. "Now, give him Bouncin' Betty and an Assault Rifle."

D-183 shook his head. "I'm not taking a gun that bounces. That's a sign it's a bad gun. As in worst gun ever. Of all time…" 177 slapped his back.

"Just take it and quit talking like a recruit wearing grey armor. It has more shots than the rocket launcher." Fatty took the moment to explain the oddly modeled Assault Rifle.

"We actually have an upgrade, its not been distributed to the general troops yet." 177 smiled again, Fatty had a way with things. "This is the MA5B," Fatty said, holding out the weapon for D-183. "Unlike our current model, this baby has 60 rounds per magazine." At this, D-183 grabbed the new rifle. It was certainly smoother than the current rifle looked. The Fuel Rod Cannon was passed over the counter and the Spartan's turned to leave. It was then that a voice crackled over the speakers.

"New Alexandria is under attack, I repeat, New Alexandria is under attack! Requesting all available units!" The transmission ended, and the two Spartans looked at one another.

Fatty held up an odd set of keys. "Time to give them hell."

A group of Marines ducked behind a line of cars as plasma and shards flew over head.

"This is a ton of fucking shit!" one yelled. Another slapped the back of his helmet. "No crap dick biscuit!"

"Can it!" the third said. "We're all sitting ducks here to that big fucker with the hammer!"

Silence befell the troopers. After watching eight of their comrades get creamed and the Brute had less than a scratch, they had booked it out. There was no way in hell they were going to be able to kill him. They tightened their grip on their weapons, preparing for the worst. A loud growl sounded, and the three troopers spun up and around, ready to meet their end.

The Brute however was not even looking at them. He was looking down the intersection, which was blocked from the troopers view. There was a 'chucpung' and they was a Fuel Rod blast rocket off and bounced off the ground.

"Shit! Reinforcements!" the second trooper yelled. But his cry was silenced by an even louder.

"I told you this gun sucks!"

An even louder sound responded, the troopers watched as the Brute was blown to bits, the sound of a Scorpion Main Battle Tank cannon firing. The large tank came into view, a white and blue armored Spartan on the front end. The tank turned to face them before the canopy opened up.

"Troopers! You look lost!" said a steel and blue Spartan.

"Not anymore!" The troopers rushed to the tank, thankful for some back up. The white one climbed into the gunner's position, and the troopers took up the sides. The tank rolled forward again, blowing apart much in the way of anything alien.

**So as you may have guessed, I watch RVB. Good stuff, Wash does have some good lines. Too good to resist. (BTW I like the Fuel Rod Cannon) And I promise some serious action next chapter.**


	7. Carnage report

**AWWW YEAH! Big fat entry for you guys! If you're squeamish, I'm sorry, this one I went a little nasty with to capture the horror of war and 177 darker side. DESCRIPTIVE POWERS ACTIVATE!**

"I'm out!" D-183 yelled as he fired his last two shots from "Bouncin' Betty". 177 watched the two green shots hit Elites dead on, but their shields only flickered. He ducked his head back down behind the overturned Scorpion he had been driving only minutes ago. As to how it had even flipped over, the steel and blue Spartan knew not. D-183 tossed the Fuel Rod Cannon to the side and slinked over from the far side of the tank barricade.

"We're sitting ducks here, we need to move," the white and blue armor said.

"I didn't notice!" 177 yelled back sarcastically. "Marines!" he called out to the two remaining, one had been fried to a crisp from a Focus Rifle, a favorite amongst Jackal Snipers. "I don't know what your standing orders are, but I say its time to pick a different battle field."

"We're pulling back?" one asked.

"No, we are moving to a position where we can better take care of our friends over there." The whine of a plasma grenade detonating made the troopers wince; the concussion made the tank buckle. "They were getting much too close."

"There was a set of buildings with large balconies overlooking each side of this street a while back. That might be a good place for an ambush," the second marine said. 177 could have sworn their names were optimist and pessimist.

"Sounds good to me," D-183 agreed.

"Now all we need is a distraction that is somehow going to keep them off of our backs," Pessimist added.

"Please, we have these," 177 and D-183 said in unison. They handed a couple grenades to the marines.

"On the count of 10. I want them closer," D-183 whispered over the comm system. "1… 2…"

"Ten!" 177 yelled, pulling his pin. All he needed for justification was a sudden shadow coming around the tank. Spartan 177 spun around the corner as the world slowed. Though the Elite stood over him by a good couple feet, 177 curled his fingers around the first grenade, and punched it into the Elite's mouth. What would have been a battle cry became a choked muffle, almost seeming to silence the arena. 177 retrieved the M45 Tactical shotgun from his right thigh in time to blast a second Elite in the face at point blank. Blood didn't even have time to splatter his armor; 177 had already pulled the pin and was high tailing it away.

177 ran with his comrades; they had only managed to get off their grenades in the time 177 had dispatched two Elites. While not the fastest, Spartan 087 - Kelly held that honor, Spartan 177 - Andrew had a reaction time that had its moments. It even defied Spartan standards when his adrenaline was pumping. It allowed his mind precious milliseconds to do whatever he wanted. Halsey had always wondered if that was why all of 177's kills were perfect. At least to what 177 saw in his mind.

"Next time you do that I'm gonna have Deja teach you how to count!" D-183 yelled, expertly jumping over a trashed Warthog to land perfectly. The memory of the AI from their training days brought back good memories of food and drink while learning everything they ould need to know to be Spartan's.

"It's more fun my way!" 177 called back. "This pace is going to kill me though!" He couldn't help that little outburst. He was thankful the marines were booking it, but to a Spartan pumped up, this was a jog in the park.

"Shud'up," Pessimist said.

"We'll take the high ground Spartan's," Optimist said, punching his fellow comrade in the shoulder. "What are you guys going to do?"

"Working on it!" 177 yelled. Behind him he heard the whine of a Ghost in hot pursuit. He pinged D-183 and jerked a thumb backward. D-183 nodded, and the two set off to prepare a makeshift ambush that the marines weren't even ready to help support.

The two Spartans broke off into a run for the pillars supporting the balconies the marines would shortly be set up on. D-183 grabbed hold of a misplaced dumpster, using it as a counter weight as he launched himself at his building. It was then that even a several ton Spartan pulled off a move that an armor-less teenager could. He treated the wall like level flooring, and used his hand to pin himself. D-183 scooted to the ceiling, preparing for the moment. 177 had jumped and slid feet first into a pillar, halting his sudden rush of momentum. The pillar cracked and crumbled slightly, but withstood the punishment. By the time a normal human could have comprehended what happened, D-183 would have snuck to the ceiling and 177 would have already have his trusty Sniper Rifle nicknamed 'Truth" out and deployed.

The Ghost was driven by an Elite Minor. 'Easy kill,' 177 thought as he leveled the reticule over the Elite's head. He held his fire, his finger no where near the trigger. He lay as still as possible, hoping the flung dumpster from D-183 was providing enough cover, though it revealed more than half of his body.

The Elite was cautious, scooting slowly forward, wary of the trap just feet away. D-183 fired his Assault Rifle from the ceiling one handed. It took a moment to see where D-183 was going with this. The bullets pinged off of the Elite's shields, but it did little to the driver and vehicle. But as D-183 dropped and dived for cover from the coming barrage of plasma fire, 177 understood.

The purple vehicle turned, leaving the Elite completely exposed. Faster than a hummingbirds wing beat 177 had relined the shot and fired. The bullet left "Truth" and entered the Elite's brain, but only after piercing the shields and removing most of the Elite's skull. As the body slumped off of the Ghost, D-183 realized, and 177 had a subtle reminder of why he liked the Sniper Rifle's oversized rounds. The round would leave the muzzle with such speed, and its mass was enough to truly be considered an "Anti-Material" weapon. Upon impact, it creates a hole much bigger than itself. The force completely rips everything apart like soft targets and creates a cavity. Bigger, it matters not. It just plows through to the prize. In this case, an Elite's brains which were reduced to something smaller than the thickness of a dime.

"Remind me not to piss you off," D-183 said, inspecting the headless Elite. 177 popped out the clip and scratched in another mark before placing it back and cycling the bolt through. The marines who had witnessed the tail end of the skirmish were wondering where such copious amounts of badassery could be obtained. 177 looked at D-183 and left it at that, letting the black visor of his helmet speak all for him.

The moment was shortly lived when the entourage of Covenant tailing them finally caught up. D-183 picked up the dead Elites grenades and tossed one into their mix, hoping it would cause them to focus their attention away from them for a moment.

"Let's save the group hug for later," he said, hopping into the Ghost and spinning it around protecting himself. 177 dove behind the Ghost, popping up only to fire two shots. A Jackal Sniper and an Elite fell. The barrage of plasma kept most of the Covenant at bay.

"Marines, fire!" 177 yelled. The staccato of the Assault rifles filled the air. Grunts and unarmored Jackals fell dead on the spot, completely unaware of where the fire came from.

"We're low on ammo!" Optimist yelled. "You guys are going to be without covering fire quick!"

177 blinked over the comm acknowledging the intel. To make matters worse, a sticky grenade sailed through the air and found its mark on the Ghost. The two Spartans dived for cover and the purple speeder blew up. 177 dived behind a pillar and shot off again, watching with smug satisfaction as an Elite fell.

"We need to end this now!" D-183 shouted.

"Wanna see how 'Truth' acts in close quarters?" 177 said casually before reloading both of his weapons. A blip came through the comm and they tore from their cover. Plasma raced around them but 177 disregarded all of the different colored plasmas and went for the kills. It was easy to dodge them anyways, their aim was shit when you were charging right at them. D-183 hopped and bounced around; he was like a little monkey on everything.

When the pair finally reached the Covenant line, hell truly broke loose. The first Elite went down with a loud "craboom". The Elites head was left with a good portion of it missing; it only remained intact because the bullet hadn't had enough time to build up its initial speed. D-183 had brought out his brand new model issue Assault Rifle and began to fire a stream of full auto rain. He kicked a Grunt in the face, watching as the skull caved in. The Assault Rifle quickly brought the end to two Jackals.

"Where'd you learn that?" 177 asked using the butt of the shotgun like a baseball bat. It sent a Jackal flying, knocking into an Elite.

"From you!" D-183 roared back. He holstered the rifle and began wrestling with an Elite for its "Elite shot". He butted heads with the angry Elite when its mouth was open in protest.

177 let off the Shotgun three times, noting with pride that four Grunts fell down. He grabbed a Grunts head in one hand and crushed it; simultaneously shoving the Shotgun down the open maw of a Jackal. Blue luminescent covered his left hand as the shotgun and face shield were smeared with the Jackals blood.

"Keep learning!" 177 shouted angrily. He wasn't angry at D-183, something else entirely. An Elite started to charge the steel and blue Spartan. 177 stood his ground and Sparta-kicked the Elite when it got close enough. He finished it off with two shells to the face. "Get the hell off my planet!"

D-183 kept the Elite's Launcher in one hand and ducked, whipping out the Assault Rifle with the other. The remaining portion of the 60 round magazine was emptied into the Elite; starting from the pelvis to the forehead. The armor piercing ammo made short work of the shields and body. D-183 stood with the "Elite Shot" in one had and Assault Rifle in the other.

The remaining Grunts dove back down the way they came. "That wasn't many, wonder where they all went," D-183 said, checking the Launcher ammo and reloading the Assault Rifle.

"Marines, get down here and scrounge ammo. We have more incoming." D-183 felt like giving him a "huh?" but one whole side of his motion tracker went red.

"Split up, I'll meet you on the other side," 177 running directly into the fray. Sniper shots rang out fast and loud as at least 3 sets of plasma turret streams raced to burn the battle crazed Spartan.

D-183 ducked off to a side alley. With the Launcher out in front, he awaited whatever would come from the side streets. As he watched a couple Covenant go by, he bided his time. He could only hope that a high priority target would walk by.

Shortly a Field Marshall Elite went by, barking orders. D-183 holstered the Launcher and snuck closer. He was afraid the Elite would move, but thankfully he was too busy ordering some Hunters.

The Elite only felt pain, then death. D-183 had used the Elites hip armor as a step ladder to get higher. He was looking down at the Elites neck where he had stabbed, then brought the blade up into the head, and through the brain cavity. With every once of strength, D-183 brought it through the skull. D-183 hopped down as the body stood momentarily and finally dropped.

It was like a chain reaction. Everyone minus the Hunters ran for cover, looking for someone to give orders. The Hunters began charging the giant guns attached to their hands, planning on blasting the Spartan to bits. The white and blue Spartan dodged their shots easily enough. He tossed a frag in their direction, knowing it would distract them long enough. The Launcher came out and Grunts and Elites went flying. Even the odd Brute was caught up in the midst of carnage. The concussive effect tore them all apart in a very pleasing way. D-183 switched to the Assault Rifle for and entirely different way of killing. Much more surgical.

D-183 was beginning to wonder why 177 enjoyed bullets so much when the pair of Hunters came back to view. One brought its shield down to try and squish him; D-183 retorted with a burst just underneath the head shield. He was rewarded with his already Elite blood slick arm get coated in Hunter… something. The orange florescence added an odd mix to his armor. He rolled backwards and away from the massive beast only to meet another just as it brought its shield down.

The Spartan ran up the shield-arm of the monstrosity and planted himself on its shoulders. With one hand he ripped the head shield back and fired point blank into the Hunter. The magazine quickly emptied, but the Hunter stood. Its partner wasn't too happy about him piggy backing and fired. Again the shot was dodged with a simple jump back. Faced with the opportunity of the exposed back, D-183 loaded his last magazine, and fired another burst. The first finally had taken enough and fell to the ground. The second roared and bared down on D-183, charging its gun and raising its shield in a vengeful strike.

"Well this wont work," D-183 said tossing the spent rifle to the side. He drew out the Launcher and charged at the Hunter. Even by Spartan standards, this was stupid and rash. To his "mentor" 177 it was brilliant. D-183 was just hoping it would work.

He dived between the Hunters legs and popped up quickly, wishing he would have enough time to react. He spun to find the Hunter had had just enough time to halt its progress. With a forceful shove, D-183 plunged the "Elite Shot" into the Hunters body. D-183 felt the Hunter give a slight twitch before he fired. The usual "electrical" aura it gave when it fired covered the Hunters body before it fell to the ground. At this point D-183 whole right forearm was covered in orange goo. He turned to see two Wraiths at the end of the street, both charging their massive artillery cannons.

"Gimme a break," D-183 said reluctantly as he noticed he had nothing with any ammo left. Off in the corner of his eye he spied a relatively full collection of Needlers and an odd weapon. It had a large width barrel and a sharp curved blade on the other end. D-183 said nothing, he just raced for the weapons.

177 rounded the corner wishing for six rockets as three Wraiths rounded on him. The plasma turrets rained their deadly blue fire on him. It was only by tossing his last frag did he manage to have enough room to move behind a Covenant weapon block. He retrieved "Truth" and gave a single heavy sigh. His rest was brief, for the whine of the Wraith's main cannon of destruction told him he had to move.

As his dived back out, he let a shot fly, watching his shield dwindle from the multiple barrages. The first shot hit the Elite manning the turret. One stream of blue fire stopped. Feeling hopeful, 177 let off two more shots on the run, heading for the first Wraith. He was pleased to see that both shots hit their mark.

"You really should see someone. These thoughts in your head aren't good," father spoke up. 177 hadn't even felt the AI move from the chip and into his head.

"They say my insanity is within normal limits," 177 said sharply. It was easy to rip open the driver canopy and set off one of the drivers grenades. He hopped off just as the floating death machine crashed to the ground exploded. The second met a similar fate, but not before being fired upon from the second. The seconds driver had a nasty wound; 177 had reached down the Elite's throat and ripped out its voice box and part of its throat before firing the shotgun point blank into its chest.

177 walked away from the smoldering wreckages with an empty shotgun, and a silent father. 177 looked at the sight before him; five Elites stood in a deathly silence. the two before him were Spec Ops, their energy swords drawn. The three Generals in the back stood by, waiting for orders. One Spec Op stepped forward and brandished his sword.

The steel and blue Spartan was tempted to pull out "Truth" and start firing, but the first Elite didn't give him the time. 177 drew his knife knowing it was pointless. Luckily for him the Elite seemed to was to teach him a lesson. 177 watched as his large eight inch blade get reduced to three with a simple swipe. The knife at the end burned bright from the recent removal. The Elite growled low in its throat in a challenging sort of way.

177 circled around the Elite, waiting for the next attack to come. He almost din't hear the near silent footsteps of the second Spec Ops approach. 177 ducked and plunged the knife into the second's shoulder. While the blade wasn't long enough, 177 pried the knife until he felt the Elite's sword arm give way and dislocate. It slipped with a sickening crunch and howl. 177 quickly grabbed the energy sword from his opponent and stabbed it into the neck. The howling stopped, and it was with a quick slash at the first that both Spec Op Elites fell. The three Generals roared for their fallen comrades, both pulling out their own swords. 177 picked up the second energy sword.

"Bad ass points wins. Now get off my planet." He knew the taunt would not work. He gripped the unfamiliar energy swords, hoping to win against three seasoned warriors with the same weapons.

177 used both to block the first couple attacks before attempting a swipe at one of the Elites. 177 missed completely, watching as his now exposed arm became the focus of attack. Thankfully with his reaction time boosted by the power of the suit, 177 twitched and was happy to see half an arm drop to the ground when an Elite had lunged for the tempting target. Sadly it wasn't the sword arm, and the Elite lurked in the outer edge of the battle, jabbing here and there. It was a great flurry of color and strength; 177 parried the blows where he could but he was nothing compared to the master swordsmen.

The two full and complete Elites went to each side of 177 and swept down in a chopping strike. It was only by sheer luck that 177 caught both blows with the small spacing in the swords. As they locked together, the Elites pushed, bringing 177 to his knees. 177 grunted under the strain. As much as he willed his arms to stay straight they buckled just like his knees. He started to sweat under the strain of the Elite's force. The third circled to 177's face, preparing to deliver the finishing blow. A spark lit the Spartan's mind, bringing him back into the fight.

"Psych!" 177 said through gritted teeth as the jetpack on his back activated, carrying him and the other two Elites into the air. They made kicks at him, but with nothing around them to put any force in, they were harmless grazes.

"You just got death rolled!" 177 said paraphrasing the rick-rolled line. Twisting the thrusters in opposite directions, the Elites were flung from the locked sword hold and hurled into the air.

The first never saw what happened, it just had a sword plunged into its back and then ripped downward, its innards falling to the earth. 177 kicked off its body and fired a burst from the thrusters. As he rocketed to the second, the Elite had time to raise its sword to block the strike. It was useless when 177 stabbed at its face between the energy swords blades. With the second down, 177 hovered in the air a moment and looked down at the arm and a half-less Elite. It roared at him as the two other bodies fell to the ground. Father could only imagine how evil his son looked, black visor staring down soullessly at the creature. "Andrew reign it in..." Father said, but 177 never heard a word.

177 cut off the jetpack and made his decent to the earth. The Elite made an expert swing at him, but missed completely when 177 dropped to his one knee pose. He hit with a loud metal clang, facing the ground. Once he felt the energy sword swing over his head, 177 stabbed a sword into the Elites chest.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me from over there," 177 said. He didn't know it, but any other human would have backed away in fear. 177 rose up to meet the Elite eye to eye. The Elite roared, still trying to make an attempt to kill the Spartan. "But I said GET THE FUCK OFF MY PLANET!"177 stabbed the second blade into the Elite, twisted both 90 degrees and ripped apart.

The Elite fell apart in front of him, a nice smear of blood all over the front of his armor. "I think I'll keep this," 177 said, dropping the second sword and deactivating the one in his right. He slipped it into the hard case for safe keeping, knowing that if he needed it, some ONI spook would have taken it away from him. 177 rolled his head to each side, popping his neck.

Off in the distance the Spartan heard more Wraith's. Like a wraith the the Covenant, 177 became his nickname and disappeared into the darkness before soaring into the sky unseen, headed for the sounds of trouble.

D-183 reloaded the Needler in the usual flicking fashion. He was starting to like the super-combine explosion, but it was still too much a weapon of 177 tastes. 'Let's see, lets make a weapon that spikes into your armor and then where there are lots in your body, lets make them explode. Oh, lets give it homing too!' D-183 thought as he narrowly dodged the artillery barrage he was wishing for a couple grenades when one of the Wraith's made a charge at him.

The white and blue Spartan realized only after he switched weapons that there wasn't enough time to fire and make it count. He knelt and locked his armor. The overloaded shields held their ground, completely caving in one front side of the purple tank. It seemed like the driver knew what he was going to do. D-183 quickly jumped up onto the vehicle and brandished the sharp business end of the odd Brute Shot weapon.

"Open up!" he yelled before plunging the sword into the Elites mouth. War is gross. War is sick. War makes most people feel phantom pains in their body. Spartan's were desensitized as much as one could be. It was all just a mission, the number of kills any Spartan would rack up would be enough to make any ODST's stomach churn. Even some would gag on how some of the Covenant met their end. To a Spartan, this was all just a mission. How they killed, it mattered not.

D-183 hooked the Elite with the blade and flung him out of the turret position. He flipped the weapon around and shoved it into a small hole on the vehicle and fired, knowing that he had just fired point blank into the driver's head.

"Who's next?" D-183 called out, immediately loving the Brute Shot as a weapon. Nasty blade, nasty concussion. What more could one as for?

As the second Wraith turned on D-183, the one behind him exploded, placing D-183 in a dark haloed explosion. He raised the Brute Shot with one had and rested it on his shoulder. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn the Elite in the turret paused.

It was all 177 needed. He was a good 50 feet above the Elite in the turret when he fired. The bullet tore through the Elite, leaving nothing bigger than a shin for an autopsy. The black visored Spartan pulled out a Covenant grenade and opened the hatch.

"Hold this for me will ya?" he said as he tossed the grenade into the Elite's crotch, right where any man would cringe from getting hit. Though an Elite's anatomy was quite different from a humans, the Elite still gave a growl that was somewhere between "Oh shit," and "Why me?".

177 jetpacked away just in time as the Wraith blew up, showering the area in bits and pieces of it. He landed on the ground next to D-183 and they surveyed each others armor.

"You look like shit," the steel blue Spartan commented. D-183 scoffed the other Spartan, noticing that while he didn't have quite the mix of colored blood, he seemed to be covered in more of it. The blue from the Grunt's head earlier was a nice touch.

"I look awesome," 177 said happily, scratching his kills from the skirmish onto the rifle.

"You're gonna run out of room," D-183 said, noticing that the butt of the "Truth" was covered.

"Not bloody likely. Every eighth of an inch scratch is just one kill. Fourth is 5 kills, half an inch 25…" 177 explained. D-183's eyes widened. He suddenly had newfound respect for the Spartan, there were more kills to that Sniper Rifle's name than most ODST's could brag about.

"Spartan's 177 and D-183 report in. 177 and D-183 report in," said a female's voice. Most likely Command.

"Go ahead," 177 answered.

"Head to your waypoint destination I'm sending you. Detail time, we need some Spartan's there to insure its safe departure."

"Roger that," 177 growled. He clicked off the line. "Detail sucks," 177 said to the white and blue Spartan.

"Come on," D-183 said, running towards the starport. 177 followed him, reloading his Sniper Rifle. It was another day in the life of a Spartan.

**Hope you all enjoyed! Review, I love reviews!**


	8. Never say goodbye

**Command_System: EXE-Startup...**

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**Emergency Protocol: A297D...**

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**Keep it clean**

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**/Searching\... ! Found**

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**1File...**

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**EXE 1File**

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**Start Transmission...**

**Greetings dear readers. First off I must apologize. I could complain about my horrific writers block, my lack of a job, and many other things, but this does not excuse me from letting you guys down. Please forgive me. After realizing how long it had been since my last update, I decided to publish what little I had, in order to let you know this story is not dead. After all, Spartans never die.**

**...End Transmission**

D-183 absentmindedly sharpened the blade on the Brute Shot. He liked the sound of the blade singing against his combat knife. 177 removed his helmet and ran an armored hand over his dirty blonde hair. Truth offered him no solace from his tormented mind. He felt an animal rage just underneath the surface. The only thing keeping him focused on the here and now was D-183 and the jostles from the Pelican.

"Lighten up man," D-183 said softly. "We're doing everything we can."

"I don't think we are," 177 retorted sternly. The steel and blue Spartan gripped his Paratrooper kneepads in frustration. His anger was cut short by the sounds of the Pelican they were in.

The Loading doors opened and the two Spartans stepped out, cradling helmets and weapons. Marines scattered around, doing this and that. This base was certainly bustling with activity.

"Spartans!" some official looking person called out. D-183 and 177 turned towards the man, halting just a couple feet away.

"Thank god, I thought we were on our own," the official said, more to himself than out loud. A silver blocked his face, but 177 was no idiot. Most likely this was some ONI spook. 177 hated ONI. When you start having to keep secrets from your own race, you need to rethink your priorities.

"No more than usual," D-183 commented.

"Yes, right," the official said, seeming to slip into auto pilot. "Well I have good news and bad news. Good is you both have a way off this rock. Bad news is that one of you must go to a different ship. There isn't enough room on this current scrap heap…" 177 grunted, trying to keep his harsh comments locked in his mouth.

"Just give me the coordinates and I'm gone," 177 said grimly. The official didn't so much as move.

"Already done." With that the ONI spook strutted away.

"Alright now," D-183 said, turning to 177, a fire in his eyes. "We stick together, I'm sure there is some stuff we can leave." A cart caught the steel and blue armored Spartans attention, which only confirmed his suspicions. This was a death ship. They were putting whatever wounded they could on board. 177 almost felt himself shudder when he saw small crates being wheeled onto a Pelican, getting ready for the death ship in orbit somewhere. 177 turned back to his partner, staring him in the eyes.

"We both know I can survive out there a hell of a lot better than you can," 177 started to say.

"Woah now, I knew you had balls, I didn't know you were brainless too," D-183 retorted. He didn't understand, but somehow it made sense. 177 needed to be on some other ship, somehow that seemed right. The two gripped each others free hands, silently saying 'take care'.

"Don't worry about me," 177 said as he backed away, sliding the helmet down onto his face. "Besides, Spartans never die."


End file.
